How I wish
I could sail above these tears,
no longer drenched in these fears,
instead of lowly wailing for
something beyond a closed door.
A pain keeps setting me aflame,
reopening binding veins,
not letting me breathe,
when I am drowning
beneath floorboards
of memorable rooms, endless,
with colors this crude,
this senseless, in their
shapelessness.
How I yearn
to be above the blame,
the distancing scorn.
How I want
to see a glimmer of sunlight
laid gently upon this tearstained face,
as I roam, while lost
in this place.
How have I not
come to terms, with the fog
of an ocean’s depth in thought?
How have I not
ever seen the clear weather,
appearing after a storm?
Modern Romanticism 
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